"Don't you ever get lonesome up here? Sort of gloomy, ain't
it--especially at nights?"
"Oh, no," returned the Interpreter; "I have many interesting callers;
there are always my work and my books and always, night and day, I have
our Mill over there."
"Heh! What! _Our_ Mill! Where? Oh, I see--yes--_our_ Mill--that's good!
_Our_ Mill!"
"Surely you will admit that I have some small interest in the Mill
where we once worked side by side, will you not, Adam?"
"Oh, yes," laughed Adam, helping on the jest. "But let me see--I don't
exactly recall the amount of your investment--what was it you put in?"
"Two good legs, Adam Ward, two good legs," returned the old basket
maker.
Again Adam Ward was at a loss for an answer. In the shadowy presence of
that old man in the wheel chair the Mill owner was as a wayward child
embarrassed before a kindly master.
When the Interpreter spoke again his deep voice was colored with gentle
patience.
"Why have you come to me like this, Adam Ward? What is it that you
want?"
Adam moved uneasily. "Why--nothing particular--I just thought I would
call--happened to be going by and saw your light."
There had been no light in the hut that evening. The Interpreter
waited. The surrounding darkness of the night seemed filled with
warring spirits from the gloomy Flats, the mighty Mill, the glittering
streets and stores and the cheerfully lighted homes.
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